Chapter 6: Daggers and Disguises
The moon hung like a judgmental coin in the sky—silver, cold, and silently watching.
Leon sat cross-legged on the floor, treasures arrayed around him like a broke dragon with weird taste. He stared at the unused ones—the cloak, the orb, the blade. The boots were still on his feet, and the ring rested snug on his finger, quietly knitting away his bruises.
The rest? Dead weight. At least for now.
"Alright, let's see if this soul-inventory hack works again."
He reached inward, channeling that strange muscle he'd only recently learned to flex—part focus, part intent, part 'please don't break the metaphysics.'
One by one, the treasures shimmered and vanished into the vault: the Cloak of Mild Invisibility, the Orb of All-Elemental Affinity, and finally, the Blade of Convenient Sharpness—still brooding in its sealed state like a moody anime sword.
All gone. Neatly filed in whatever IKEA shelving system his soul had built.
He grinned. "Inventory management? Actual RPG energy. This is peak reincarnation."
With a little coin to his name—four silver, thank you very much—and the sweet taste of financial independence still lingering, Leon decided to treat himself.
Specifically to a weapon he could actually 'lift' like that emo sword he had.
---
Grayridge Market at night was quieter, but no less sketchy. Fewer drunks, more eyes watching from alley cracks. Leon moved with purpose, hood up, boots whispering on cracked stone.
He passed barrels, sleeping dogs, and suspicious meat carts before arriving at a squat building with a crooked anvil sign: Forge & Flame.
The only blacksmith in town.
The moment he stepped inside, the scent of metal and soot hit him like a punch to the sinuses.
An old man behind the counter glanced up—and immediately squinted.
Leon ignored the gaze and started browsing, hands behind his back like a kid in a museum he definitely couldn't afford.
"You lost, boy?" the smith grunted.
Leon arched a brow. "No. I'm shopping."
A pause. Then a snort. "That right? Little early for sword dreams."
Leon didn't respond. He walked past a wall of swords—long, heavy, impractical—and eyed a dagger display near the back.
The smith grumbled something under his breath and started to walk over—until Leon flipped a silver coin between his fingers and said, "I'm not broke. Just short."
That changed the air instantly.
The smith took a longer look. Clean clothes. Neatly combed hair. Strange silver eyes that didn't belong in a dirt-town orphan.
He would see the bit of white hair definitely not a normal color.
Something clicked.
"...You're not from around here," he muttered.
Leon smirked. "Maybe. Or maybe I'm just a noble on vacation from my tragic backstory."
The smith stiffened, unsure if he was joking.
Leon didn't clarify.
Instead, he pointed at a pair of twin daggers on the top rack—simple hilts, steel with no ornament, but the balance looked right. He could feel it. These weren't showpieces. They were made to be used.
Looking at the twin daggers displayed on the upper shelf—plain hilts, steel unpolished but well-balanced. "These. How much?"
The blacksmith didn't even blink. "Ten silver."
Leon coughed. "You say that like it's not a crime."
The man grunted. "Good steel costs."
"Good steel, sure. But this?" Leon squinted at the blade. "Looks like something a goblin would pawn off 'after' losing a fight."
The blacksmith's brow twitched. "You've got a sharp tongue for someone with short arms."
"I compensate with long grudges," Leon said sweetly. "Now, I'll be real with you. I've seen butter knives that looked more lethal."
"They're forged with mountain-hardened iron, quenched in Bristleback oil, and balanced by hand."
"Wow," Leon deadpanned. "So are soup ladles in the capital. What's your point?"
The blacksmith's eyes narrowed. "Three-day tempering process."
"Still looks like it would lose to a loaf of bread."
"It can gut a boar in one strike."
Leon leaned in. "So can I, if the boar's already dead and emotionally unprepared."
The man exhaled sharply through his nose. "Look, kid. You want something that doesn't break when you swing it? You pay for it."
Leon pulled one of the daggers free and tested the weight. It felt good in his hand—too good. He didn't let that show. Instead, he spun it once, then raised an eyebrow.
"No enchantments. No runes. Not even a fake brand name etched into the blade. Ten silver is 'delusional.'"
The blacksmith crossed his arms. "Then go find worse steel somewhere else."
Leon shrugged. "I would, but you're literally the only blacksmith in town. Monopoly doesn't mean you get to roleplay as a noble extortionist."
"Eight silver."
"Three."
The man choked. "What? That barely covers the materials!"
"Then you shouldn't have priced it like you were funding a war."
"Six. Final offer."
Leon flipped a coin into the air. "Three. And I'll throw in the pleasure of not telling everyone your shop's selling 'bread-killers.'"
The blacksmith stared at him. Hard.
Leon stared back, unblinking.
"…Three silver," the man grunted finally, rubbing his temples. "And if you break 'em, don't come crying."
Leon dropped the coins into the man's hand. "I don't cry. I complain professionally."
He sheathed the twin daggers at his side, lighter in coin but smug in spirit.
As he turned to leave, the blacksmith muttered behind him, "Kid like that's either cursed, possessed, or dangerously clever."
Leon called back without turning, "Or all three, if you're lucky."
As he left, the blacksmith stared after him—frowning.
"…Definitely not a noble," he muttered. "Too cheap for that."
------
Back at the inn, Leon slipped quietly into his room and bolted the door with the enthusiasm of someone expecting a midnight assassination attempt.
Click. Clack. Slide. Lock. Push a chair under the knob. Classic paranoid prep.
He didn't even bother pretending to sleep.
His fingers were already reaching into the vault.
The Dimensional Hourglass dropped into his hands with a familiar pulse of starlight and silent promise.
"Alright," he muttered. "Time to stop playing soup tycoon and start leveling up."
He placed the hourglass on the floor, took a breath, and twisted the top.
Reality blinked.
The world melted away.
In its place: that gray, timeless realm—silent, endless, and empty. His personal training chamber. Infinite hours in the span of a single second.
Leon unsheathed the twin daggers, their weight light but solid in his grip.
He stared at them, then at his hands. Thin. Small. Not weak, but not enough.
Not yet.
His grip tightened.
He remembered the thug's face. The smell of rot. The way fear had crawled up his spine like it owned him.
He did survive that encounter because of his quicky and not showing any fear to them otherwise it would have been bad. Luck played a part in that too.
"I'm not doing that again."
No more trembling.
No more hoping luck would save him.
He shifted into a stance—clumsy, awkward, half-remembered from action scenes and anime poses—but it was a start.
His muscles ached almost immediately. The daggers felt heavier with every move.
But he didn't stop.
"I've got all the time in the world," Leon muttered. "And I'm done being scared."
And in the quiet of a world with no clocks, no threats, and no excuses—he began to train.
[Author: Guys make sure to comment on the chapters it gives me the motivation to continue]